


The Costume Party

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Costumes, Crack, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Minor Molly Hooper/Greg Lestrade, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sexy Mycroft Holmes, Sibling Incest, Sibling Rivalry, holmescest, minor John Watson/OFC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-24 21:29:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21344992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: A costume party in 221B is due. Mycroft leaves the choice of the costume to Anthea. A mistake or a blessing?
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 36
Kudos: 80





	The Costume Party

**Author's Note:**

> Just a cracky idea, coming from a visual of Mycroft in this kind of clothes :) I profoundly apologise for the portrayal of John's girlfriend who doesn't get to say a word :)

### Invitation

“This is the stupidest idea you’ve had in a while, John.”

The doctor sighed. “You just say that for the sake of opposing me!”

Sherlock snorted. “Oh really. You seriously think dressing like a, a penguin or something will be fun. And inviting people who have no creativity whatsoever and will just look as if their mummies had dressed them for kindergarten is your definition of a great evening...”

“Well, what is yours?! Sitting around, brooding? You don’t even play the violin anymore.”

This was true. Since he had given up on visiting Eurus in Sherrinford and playing with her he hadn’t felt the urge to pick up his instrument at all.

It had been hopeless. She had smiled and their play had been beautiful, oh yes. But she had not said a single word. And then one day she had stopped smiling and started to play depressive songs. He had asked her, even begged her to talk to him but she had just turned her back at him. She had given up so Sherlock had given her up and he couldn’t even look at the Stradivarius anymore. It had turned into a symbol for everything that had gone wrong since… Since he had returned from destroying Moriarty's network. And if this wasn’t a pleasant thought…

“It will be nice for you to have our friends here for a change,” John said. “You never go to the morgue anymore.”

True as well. Sherlock had no interest in experiments anymore. There was only so much one could do with body parts. Whipping corpses wasn't as much anymore as it once had been. And he didn’t actually want to meet Molly after… what she had made him say. He felt strange in her company. He had felt strange saying this. It hadn’t been true. And she had to know this and still there was this half-sad, half-hopeful glimmer in her eyes when she came to take Rosie, this barely suppressed anticipation he would one day stand up and say, _‘Molly, I meant it.’_ It wouldn’t happen.

“No,” he said.

John sighed. “Well, I will do it, if you want that or not. It’s also _my_ flat.”

John and Rosie had moved back in when 221B had been rebuilt. Sherlock assumed that this arrangement would not last forever. John would eventually meet someone he wanted to share his life with and move out again. He didn’t mind them being here of course. John was still his best friend. They had gone through hell and back and not always together and there had been lots of pain and loss and bit-not-good but it had not destroyed their affection for each other. John was still his partner in crime and Rosie was a delight to be around. But it would come to an end; Sherlock had accepted this. This was just an interlude until a new era would start.

“Do what you want. Just make sure to let me know when so I can be elsewhere.”

John sighed. And then he sighed again. “That was the door knocker, wasn’t it?”

Sherlock nodded. The slow, heavy steps on the stairs told him enough. Mycroft was here and he was not feeling very cheerful. Well, was he ever? “I bet he brings the most boring case of our career,” he mumbled. He was actually not feeling very cheerful either…

“Hi Mycroft. Long time no see!”

“Indeed, Doctor Watson. Brother mine...” Mycroft looked as if he’d had a lemon for breakfast.

“Mycroft. What a beautiful morning.”

His brother gave him a rather haughty look. “If you say so… As you don’t seem to be busy, I...”

“You should invite him, John.” Sherlock grinned.

The doctor beamed at him before turning to Mycroft. “Yes! You must come!”

“Come where?” Mycroft looked at them, confused and annoyed.

“To John’s famous costume party of course.” Sherlock’s mood had lightened up. When had he last been able to wind up his brother a bit! Except for pretending to be about to shoot him and that had not been funny at all…

“I don’t think so...” Mycroft mumbled.

“Well, of course not. Old spoilsport that you are.” Sherlock avoided John’s look.

“Yeah, sure. You’re too important and all that...” John said, letting Sherlock get away with it for now but of course the detective knew there was no way to skip this silly party now, if Mycroft came there or not. He would never hear the end of it.

“He would only show up as some old king with a fake head under his arm,” Sherlock chuckled. “And he would make sure nobody has fun...”

Mycroft's cheeks had reddened. “I am very well capable of attending a party, Sherlock.”

“Great. It’s on Friday the fifth, seven pm. There is no special motto so just show up in something funny and original. So… With which exciting case can we help you?” John gave Mycroft the big, innocent eyes, and Sherlock couldn’t help but admiring him for his chutzpah.

Mycroft looked taken aback and appalled, but then he straightened his shoulders. “I will be there. And now listen...”

*****

“Oh, don’t worry, sir, I will take care of the costume. Leave it to me. I organised my sister’s wedding, including the dresses for the bridesmaids, and everybody was very happy. I’m sure this party will be very nice.”

Mycroft gave his trusted PA a rather doubtful look, of course already regretting having agreed to come to this insane event.

Anthea smiled. “Okay, maybe a bit nice. I think… it will be a pleasant change for you after… You know...”

Oh yes, Mycroft knew. Sherrinford. Eurus killing people in front of him, even demanding he should kill as well… Certainly he had not been very pleasant to be around since this. Well, not that he usually was; he was well aware that he wasn’t exactly Mr Sunshine even on his good days… But there hadn’t been a single good day since then and of course Anthea, who spent so much time with him, would be… concerned? Yes, he supposed so.

“You will have to attend the meeting with the Prince first but it should be finished at six-thirty so you can change clothes and go to Baker Street from here,” Anthea continued.

Damn… Mycroft had totally forgotten about this meeting. So he would first spend two hours with the highest man in the land just to waste his time with Sherlock's dull friends… Hopefully at least Greg Lestrade would be there so he could talk to him about… Actually there was nothing they could talk about except for the obvious: Sherlock…

His brother. Menace of his life. Light of his life. Love of his life…

Mycroft was a very special man. He had been able to read with two, had learned to play the piano perfectly with four, teaching himself. His brain was like a computer, and a good one. He was so different from the rest of the world that of course he had to pick the one man he could never have as the one he longed to have.

Sherlock had never got it, never even suspected it, Mycroft was sure; otherwise his brother would have thrown his knowledge into his face.

His little brother had been a lovely child, affectionate and sensitive, able to feel love for his only friend Victor and for him, Mycroft. Eurus’ actions had destroyed this version of him. Sherlock had rather forgotten basically everything of his childhood, including his sentiments for his brother, to cope with losing Victor. The dog of their aunt had been his own in his imagination, named ‘Redbeard’, not ‘Brandy’ though. He had become moody and difficult, suffering from boredom, turning to the drugs to numb his brain, and, Mycroft was quite sure, at least partly to keep the memories away. That Sherlock frequently had nightmares was a sign that his subconsciousness had never stopped trying to cough up these memories again. The cases had followed the drugs when he had finally been clean; just another thing to make sure he didn’t have to think of a past he had chosen to forget; all of this had certainly not been a conscious decision. It had been a means to protect him from recalling events he couldn’t bear. And Mycroft had always encouraged him to forget even though he had of course hated the drugs but he had seen why Sherlock had turned to them. Apart from fighting boredom with them, he had needed to suppress these forsaken memories. And if that meant Sherlock would forget everything good about their brotherly relationship as well, then so be it. And so was it.

They had become rivals, not exactly archenemies as Sherlock had once put it, the expression getting imprinted in Mycroft's brain, breaking his heart. He hadn’t shown it of course, and since Sherlock could be remarkably blind towards other people’s feelings if he didn’t care about them, and he surely didn’t care about his brother anymore, he had missed it.

In this awful, life-threatening situation in Sherrinford, Mycroft had slipped. He had shown his feelings through his eyes, and there had been a moment when he had been almost sure Sherlock had not missed them. And Sherlock had spared him, had risked his own life to beat their sister in her own game – and then he had obviously forgotten about this deeply emotional moment again. He had supported Mycroft when their parents had been told about Eurus but otherwise he had behaved as if nothing had happened. He had sent Greg Lestrade to make sure he didn’t have a breakdown and then he had focused on the rebuilt of his flat so damn John Watson could live with him again, bringing his daughter.

Mycroft had feared they would end up in a relationship, playing happy family for real. It would have killed him, not only because the sheer thought of Sherlock falling for someone was prone to shatter his heart (and it had been difficult enough to face Sherlock's platonic fascination for Irene Adler) but because he had feared for Sherlock's safety if he started a more intimate relationship with Mr Anger Issues. But it had not happened and John was not blaming Sherlock for his wife’s death anymore.

Everything was back to normal. Sherlock and John were best friends but nothing more. Sherlock ignored him, Mycroft, as he had done all his adult life. He solved cases, albeit not in such a public manner anymore. He had disappeared from the news since the turmoil his coming back from the dead had caused. John’s blog was very sparsely updated and there were very few private clients these days.

Sherlock had also stopped visiting Eurus, to Mycroft’s deep relief. He had desperately tried to not see Sherlock's efforts at bonding with their sister as a betrayal but it had been difficult. She had wanted him to kill Mycroft after all…

Like she had killed all those people… He still had nightmares of that. He wasn’t an innocent man. In his position, and he would have never reached said position otherwise, he couldn’t be an overly squeamish person. He had had to make hard decisions sometimes. But he didn't execute them… And if he had just taken better care of Eurus’ containment, these people would still be alive. It was hard to live with such a devastating knowledge. In this he and Sherlock were similar. Sherlock had caused Mary Watson’s death by not watching his tongue – but it had been her decision to catch the bullet that was meant for him. Still he had taken the blame and accepted John’s violent punishment, which had almost cost his life. One miscalculation and the doctor wouldn’t have been there in time to save him from Smith. And Mycroft knew it had been Eurus’ decision to kill these people. But he did blame himself for not having been smarter, for not having made sure she couldn’t do any harm. They really were a very special family…

And now he had managed to allow their sibling rivalry to get the better of him. Sherlock had provoked him and John had set the trap, and now he had to attend a stupid costume party… But he knew it hadn’t been just that. Sherlock had asked him to come, more or less… Just for him to decline, he knew that, and perhaps even more to laugh at him when he showed up. And if he didn’t, Sherlock would call him a coward.

Mycroft sighed. He had so much to do. And he would leave it to Anthea to pick a tasteful, sophisticated costume with just the bit of ridiculousness that every masquerade inevitably included. She would know best. But… “I would appreciate if it wasn’t a dress,” he told her, remembering the bridesmaids. The days of Lady Bracknell were over for him...

Anthea all but giggled and it should have been a warning. “Of course not, sir. I’ll make sure to choose something very manly.”

Mycroft would remember this promise later.

### Showtime

“God, you look great. You must have been a makeup artist in your previous life.”

Sherlock shrugged modestly. “It’s no big deal. Just a bit of fake blood.” Self-made, of course.

“It looks awesome. ‘The Dead Detective’, man, our guests will freak out.”

It was nice to get so much genuine admiration from his flatmate again, Sherlock had to admit. Especially after his _pretending-to-be-dead-stunt_ some years ago that John hadn't liked so much…

And Sherlock had made an effort. The suit and the shirt that had both been seriously damaged when he had been blown out of the window by the patience grenade, bearing cuts and some burn marks, the shirt torn over his muscular stomach and his back. Old shoes, decorated with splashes of sticky red fluid and some splinters of real human bones. His hair a mess of dried ‘blood’ (he had considered using real blood but Mrs Hudson had forbidden it as it would smell nasty), fake scars all over his face.

“They will like yours, too,” he said politely, and he guessed they would.

John was ‘The Captain of Darkness’ as he called it. A torn uniform, one sleeve missing completely, exposing a muscular arm. The face full of soot, an old gun in his hand, and he had asked Sherlock to put some of the artificial blood on his cheek. He looked pretty gruesome himself; they made a nice pair without a doubt.

Not that they _were_ a pair. In fact John had invited his new crush, Lavinia. She was blonde and nice and dull and Sherlock only remembered her name because John was mentioning it every few minutes, being over the moon and all about this girl he had only met five days ago. She was kind to Rosie, which was important (in fact she had met John through Rosie as she worked in the day care institution the little girl visited almost every day) and Sherlock was fine with it. If John liked his women twenty years younger than him he should go for it. At least she was even shorter than him.

“Ah, Mrs Hudson! Aren’t we scary?” John beamed at the landlady, who was entering with a tray full of little snacks.

“Very, dear.” She had masqueraded as a witch, and Sherlock had yelped and cursed when she had viciously pinched him for telling her how fitting this was.

‘_I’m a __**good**__ witch!’_ she had let him know, and perhaps that was true. Sherlock didn’t know any witches, good or bad, and if she was convinced ‘good’ witches were wearing black rugs and a black hat and carried a stuffed cat with them, she was surely right.

Sherlock glanced at the goodies she had been brought and received an admonishing look.

“You will have to wait until the guests are there.”

Sherlock huffed. It would only be John's brand new girlfriend, Mycroft, Molly and Lestrade. Neither of them would mind if he just had a tiny sandwich before they showed up to get over with this nonsense he would have never agreed to attend if not for showing his brother that he… Well, something. Hadn’t all his life been about showing Mycroft that he was clever? At least almost as clever as he was? There wasn’t a lot they could compete about though. Mycroft was powerful in his unique position. He was a person close to the sodding Queen. He had no interests beside serving the country, sipping expensive whiskey and wearing elegant but highly conventional suits. Sherlock had almost suggested a bet with John that Mycroft would show up in his usual armour tonight with only a bravely colourful tie or carrying a sword instead of his umbrella. Well, in fact there was a sword _in_ the umbrella… Anyway… This party would be boring and he wanted it to be over. There wouldn’t be any surprises…

And he was proven right when Molly appeared, dressed as a… princess… The dress was so big she could hardly walk and he wondered how she wanted to sit down in this monstrosity. Her hair looked like a fluffy cloud and she was wearing heavy makeup and Mrs Hudson was all ‘oooh’ and ‘aaah’ and Sherlock had to cover his ears.

The new woman in John's life was dressed in a very short skirt and wore more eyeliner than it could be healthy for anyone's sight. She was some creature from a manga comic, whatever this was. She did look cute, Sherlock supposed, judging by John's hungry looks.

Lestrade was all big grin, sunglasses and a light-blue suit, saying he was Don Gregione, the mafia boss. Sherlock rolled his eyes and received a slap on the arm by Mrs Hudson for it.

“Can we eat now?” Sherlock asked his flatmate when the Don had got a bottle of beer and Molly was sipping at her champagne.

“Your brother isn’t here yet,” John said. “It’s not quite seven so let’s wait for him, eh?”

Sherlock sighed. “I bet he’s tied up in some important meeting or has completely forgotten about it.”

“Nah. I texted him, saying you were sure he would chicken out.”

“Cunning!” Sherlock was very impressed. “But why are you so keen on having him here? We both know he will hate it.”

“You mean even more than you do?” John gave him a wry smile and shrugged, smiling when Lavinia snuggled her head against his shoulder. “We both know he’s lonely, if he admits that or not. And he was so decent in Sherrinford. And actually I’m grateful he hadn’t had me removed after I… you know what.”

Lavinia paled at that and looked more than confused. Of course she didn’t know anything about this…

“I didn’t tell him,” Sherlock mumbled. “And he wouldn’t have cared.”

“Yes, right. He knows it. He knows everything that has to do with you. And he cares a lot. I’m only still alive because he also knows you forgave me.”

Sherlock didn’t feel the slightest wish to discuss this subject. Not now and not ever again. And Lavinia looked at the door as if she expected the Antichrist to show up anytime. “I want a sandwich now,” he insisted. “He might be...”

“Ha! I heard it!”

Sherlock had heard it too. The knocker. Well, showtime for big brother!

The door opened and a second later all conversation in the room died and a bottle and a glass hit the floor, spilling beer respectively champagne onto the carpet but not breaking.

“Oh my holy fucking...” mumbled John and Sherlock supposed he couldn’t have said it better.

“Good evening.” Mycroft nodded at everybody and avoided the puddles of alcohol when he crossed the room. “Miss Hooper, you look lovely.”

Molly, gaping like a fish, nodded. “Tha… thank you, Mr Holmes. You… too...”

Lestrade and Mrs Hudson were not able to say anything at all, obviously, and opened and closed their mouths without anything coming out of it when Mycroft politely complimented them for their costumes as well.

Neither was Sherlock. He could just stare. Up and down. And in between.

“We have a winner for the most astonishing costume,” John said after having recovered from his shock, offering a beer to the politician after introducing him to Lavinia, whose eyes were almost bulging out of their sockets.

“You are too kind,” said Mycroft, taking it. “Cheers.” And when he drank from the bottle as if this was a completely normal thing to do for him, his eyes were fixed on Sherlock, who was still standing frozen on the spot with his mouth open and his brain suffering a thorough short circuit.

*****

And Mycroft drank the ghastly beer and thought about his own reaction not even half an hour earlier.

The past days had been hectic to say the least. This day had been the epitome of stress. The PM had upset some very important woman, an industry boss, and Mycroft had needed to smoothe some seriously ruffled feathers. There had been a terroristic threat that could be prevented in the last moment. In short, he had totally forgotten about this party.

And then he had returned to his office after the interesting but challenging meeting with the Prince and had found a note on his desk.

_Your costume is in the bottom drawer. The shoes are in the wardrobe._

_Believe me: You will look fantastic in it._

_PS: Please don’t fire me, sir._

_XXX Anthea_

He had swallowed hard and needed a full minute to conjure enough courage to open the drawer. There was a bag in it. It had been rather heavy when he had taken it out. He had smelled leather when he had opened it. And when he had pulled one item after the other out of it, he had been sure he had landed in another universe.

He had been cursing Anthea and the day she had been born. He had known he could never put this on and confront his brother. He had been about to go home and pretend he was sick.

And then John Watson had texted him, saying Sherlock was sure he didn’t have the courage to show up. He had known it was a trap. He was way too smart to be manipulated by this goldfish. But dammit… It was the one trap that would always work. And actually… Wasn't it worth doing it just to see his brother's face? He had been pacing his office for several minutes, fuming and doubting, dismissing this insane thought and seeing its merits. And in the end, he had put the darn costume on...

So now he was here. Wearing leather boots, leather chaps, a leather vest and a leather cap. All black. A black collar and matching wristbands. The clothes, if one wanted to call them that, were snuggling to his body quite fetchingly, he had to admit it. And he had never felt so naked in public because he was wearing something one couldn’t describe as pants as it cupped his genitals but didn’t cover his cheeks; there was only a string between them that felt odd and stiff. On his way through Whitehall (and thank God Lady Smallwood had already gone home) and to and from the car that had brought him here his outfit had been mostly hidden by his coat and it was dark outside; he had only put on the cap when he had been in the hallway of 221B. His arse had been cold but that had been about it.

But now there was no way to hide. And Sherlock's looks… He would have never expected such looks… He almost felt sorry for little brother but he was too busy feeling flattered… Because Sherlock wasn’t exactly appalled obviously by all the naked, hairy flesh he was showing, or by his smooth (and still firm) arse cheeks he presented to him now by casually turning around and making sure his left boot was sitting correctly.

“Can I have another beer?” he asked John, and the doctor grinned, having this girl that looked as if it was young enough to be his daughter in his arm (and Mycroft was very glad about it as it wasn’t Sherlock) and glancing at him with more respect than he had ever done since they had first met each other.

“On the way.”

And now Sherlock looked as if he was close to simply passing out and Mycroft would be damned if he wasn't feeling like the king of the castle.

### Realisations

Sherlock woke up when two fingers were snapped in front of his eyes. He blinked rapidly. His eyes felt dry and stung pretty awfully.

John put a plate in front of him. “Eat something. You haven’t touched anything all evening.”

Slowly Sherlock looked around. They were alone. “Where...”

“The party is over. Lavvie has to get up early for work so she left, too. And Mrs Hudson and I took care of the dishes. It’s all done.”

Had he really been sitting here, staring into nothingness for God knew how many hours?! Well, obviously yes…. He started to nibble at a salmon sandwich and realised he was indeed hungry.

John sat down next to him. He had already cleared his face and looked like his usual self. “You totally missed Mr Mafia and the Princess snogging,” he chuckled.

Sherlock had to think about who he was talking about for a moment before he recalled and grimaced. Molly and Graham? But then he realised that this was a pretty good development! Molly would finally stop pining for him. “Took them pretty long to get there,” he mumbled.

“Ah, yeah. Sometimes we need a special situation to get that we like someone a bit more than we thought.”

And all of a sudden, Sherlock shot up from his chair. “God...”

“Not quite. And your brother was pretty tipsy when he left. Is probably used to fine whiskey, and our cheap beer got to his brilliant head pretty badly.” John watched him curiously. “So did his appearance to your head, hm? Not quite dressed up for kindergarten by Mummy, eh?”

“He looked...” Sherlock gulped. This… _thing_ between his cheeks… And what cheeks… Sherlock saw himself sniffing at this piece of leather and feared to faint any moment.

“Oh yeah. Impressive. Never thought he would be so brave to show up in such a costume…”

“You think… He wears such stuff when he...”

John tilted his head. “You mean when he goes to a club, dancing and finding a lay? Your brother? Mycroft?”

Sherlock was close to hyperventilating at the image. His sophisticated, stiff (oh God…), misanthropic and totally humourless brother, going clubbing and… In his mind’s eye he saw a big male hand on one of those pale globes and he could have barfed! This picture was so wrong...

John shook his head, smirking. “Nah. This was just a costume. And I bet he didn't pick it.”

“But who… Oh...” Who else but Anthea? How had she dared to get such clothes, for a lack of a better word, for his brother? Sherlock’s brain slowly started to function again and suddenly he could imagine how she would have told Mycroft she would get a costume for him and he should rely on her as he always did. And Mycroft, busy and stressed out, would be grateful and forget about it until the last moment and then… “He just did it because you texted him.” There was no other explanation. There had not been time to find another costume so he’d only had the choice between dressing up like the epitome of gay machismo or stay away from the party and be a coward in his little brother’s eyes...

John grinned. “Ah, not so sure about that. You and he… always trying to be smarter than the other one, huh? Was it like this when you were children?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I guess so. But he is so much older. When I got really clever, he was almost about to leave home. He went to uni very early. But yes. He always said he’s the smart one and he was right. But I’m almost as smart and I wanted to prove it.” All kinds of memories trickled into his consciousness. Yes. He had wanted to be as good as his brother – in school, uni, life. And he had always failed...

“So there is some sort of competition tradition between you two, and he… Nah. I think he just believes it’s the reason,” John said, shaking his head. “I bet what he really aimed for was impressing you. And maybe…”

“Maybe? You mean maybe he wanted to get the reaction from me that I actually showed?” Sherlock was almost whispering now. Because what had this reaction been? Blunt, strong and scandalous desire for his own big brother, and everybody had been able to see it…

“Yes. That’s what I think,” nodded John. “It would explain so much. When he kidnapped me on this first day… It felt weird. He didn’t seem just concerned that I could be bad company for you. He seemed bloody jealous...”

If this was true, then Mycroft had been harbouring such feelings for him for ages. It was a disturbing and breathtaking thought…

“By the way Molly and Greg only had eyes for each other after the initial shock of seeing Mr _Three-Piece-Suit_ like this. Lavvie is afraid of your brother and hardly paid attention to you. Mrs Hudson on the other hand… She got it.”

Sherlock buried his face in his hands, barely noticing he was soiling his palms with makeup and fake blood, and shrieked when a voice behind him said, “Yes, I did, and it was so cute.”

“Cute?” He turned to his landlady. She found it _cute_ that he had been leering for his brother, close to drooling and passing out, and that said brother had probably desired him for decades!

“Yes. I thought he couldn’t feel anything. That he doesn’t know you. That was stupid. He loves you, Sherlock. He risked so much with showing up here like this.”

Sherlock nodded. Mycroft must have feared to be laughed at and he had put his sexuality, which had never been a thing between him and anybody who had been in this flat, on display for everybody to see and judge. Especially to Sherlock…

“I bet he won’t feel that great tomorrow,” Mrs Hudson continued. “Perhaps you should visit him.”

“Yes,” John agreed. “Show him what you feel for him.”

What exactly did he feel for Mycroft though? Sexual attraction? Well, that had been an easy deduction… What did he actually know about his brother as a person? Not much. But he did know Mycroft had always been there for him. Felt protective towards him, no matter how often and how nastily Sherlock had insulted him. Mycroft was handsome and smart and loyal. And suddenly he recalled this strange flow of energy that had passed between them during Eurus’ last game. The moment of affection when they had been talking about Mycroft's portrayal of Lady Bracknell. The trust he’d had in his brother when they had been preparing The Fall, and some moments when they had accidentally touched during this and how his skin had been tingling. How strange he had felt when drugged Mycroft had told him his loss would break his heart. All these pieces suddenly showed a full picture. “I’m in love with my brother. And he’s in love with me.”

“Oh, this is so romantic! Forbidden love!” purred Mrs Hudson, and John grinned, and Sherlock was stunned and overwhelmed and shit-scared and this all just couldn’t be true, could it?

### Confrontation

Mycroft stayed under the hot shower spray until he could feel the skin on his fingers loosening. Taking a deep breath, he switched the water to cold and yelped and jumped out of the shower cabin, reaching for his towel.

When he had woken up, he had, for a wonderful moment, completely forgotten about the previous evening. Forgotten how he had, certainly in a state of momentarily madness, shown up in his brother's flat half-naked, presenting his naked behind, his delicate parts barely hidden. How he had drunk beer and chatted with John and Mrs Hudson as if they were old friends. He had also spoken with Greg Lestrade for a while before the policeman had started to lick Molly Hooper's tonsils for the rest of the evening… And all this time John's girlfriend had be staring at him as if he was the eight's World Wonder, and a very scary one above all, and Sherlock had first been gaping at him and then staring against the wall, out to the world like a switched-off television, his brain having shut down by the sight.

And when Mycroft had remembered all this after wondering where his headache and the nasty taste in his mouth resulted from, he had buried his face in his hands.

How was he ever supposed to meet any of these people again? This was the worst thing he had ever done in his life. He had made a total idiot out of himself. And for what? To not lose Sherlock's respect when he backed out of coming to his party? Was he mad? He'd never had in the first place!

Was this a conspiracy to drive him insane? Anthea, choosing such a costume. Sherlock and John luring him into coming over, giving him beer he wasn't used to.

He dried himself off, brushed his teeth and shaved, finally calming down a bit after the extended shower. He knew damn well _he_ was to blame for this, nobody else. Fine, Anthea had got him this costume but he hadn't even bothered asking her what she had chosen, his only request having been that it should be manly, and manly it had been... He hadn't been forced to put these clothes on. He could have invented an obligation that would keep him from attending the party. He could have even told John the truth – that Anthea had chosen a completely inappropriate costume.

But instead he had chosen to wear it, to go there, to drink and to… to try and seduce his brother? Make him see what he had to offer?

When he slipped into his bathrobe, he was shivering. What kind of a man was he? And hadn't he hidden his immoral feelings from his brother for more than fifteen years? Why provoke him into realising them now? Because when Sherlock had recovered from his shock, he would clearly deduce what this had been about.

Sipping at hot tea ten minutes later, he conceded that it had something to do with the Sherrinford disaster. He had been feeling vulnerable and desperate when confronted with his sister’s madness, and still Sherlock hadn't cared about him afterwards. He had been tired of being neglected by the one man he loved. Of course he would have never expected Sherlock to desire him like he desired his little brother, but he might have hoped for some brotherly affection after all they'd been through together. And instead Sherlock had sent Greg Lestrade as a babysitter and focused on the one man that counted for him – John Watson. Above all he had been trying to bond with Eurus… Mycroft had just disappeared for him again, as the brother who had been willing to give his life for his best friend (and yes, Mycroft was well aware they wouldn’t have been in this situation if he had succeeded in containing Eurus in the first place) and as the man Sherlock had never bothered to acknowledge, despite this strange moment they had shared for these few seconds before Sherlock had decided to rather die himself than shoot him.

But… Last night… There had been desire in Sherlock's eyes. Not just shock about his completely unexpected appearance. Sherlock had _seen_ him, finally seen him as a man and he had liked what he he’d been seeing.

And nobody on this godforsaken party could have missed this… Mycroft groaned and wondered if he had to leave the country.

And in this moment, the doorbell rang and he didn’t need to look at the camera feed to know that he would very soon find out what Sherlock was thinking about him the morning after…

*****

Sherlock swallowed when the door opened up. He was already feeling tremendously agitated but the sight only increased this. He had never seen his brother (or any other man actually) in an outfit like Mycroft had been wearing it the evening before but neither had he seen his adult brother in a robe before. Freshly showered and shaved and smelling deliciously, he exposed parts of his hairy chest once more.

Sherlock had not even looked at the clock before heading here. He had not slept at all the previous night, too wired up by the developments. And now he was disturbing his brother before he could even have breakfast… “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “It’s too early, huh?”

Mycroft looked down on himself. “No, it’s fine. Let me just get dressed and...”

“No, really, you don’t have to.” Sherlock felt his cheeks flush. “I mean…”

“You mean you already saw even more of me so it doesn’t matter?” Mycroft gave him a wry smile.

“Um, yes, well… John and Mrs Hudson… They said I should go here. And I wanted to!”

Mycroft had paled when he had mentioned the names. Now he looked taken aback. “They… encouraged you to come here?”

“Yes. Yes they did. Mrs Hudson called it… cute...”

“Oh. Oh dear, come in, Sherlock. What a nasty host I am, letting you freeze outside.” Mycroft stepped back and Sherlock stumbled into his brother’s house.

He had hardly ever been here. The last time he hadn’t been exactly invited either… What a ghastly thing this had been, sending Wiggins people to scare the truth about Eurus out of his brother. He hadn’t even tried to just ask him… “I’m sorry,” he said, taking off his coat. “For the clown and… You know...”

“Oh. Well. It wasn’t very nice,” Mycroft said. “And you destroyed the film...”

Sherlock grimaced, thinking of the clip of the Holmes family at the beach. “Yes. Sorry. We can make a new one!” He blushed furiously. “I mean...”

Mycroft licked his lips nervously. “Come, let’s go to the living room. I’ll bring you some tea. You look… very nice by the way.”

Sherlock had made an effort. Scrubbing himself, shaving, putting on his best suit… “You too,” he couldn’t help but say.

Mycroft smiled. “Robes suit me?”

They had reached the living room and Sherlock sat down at the table. A probably cold mug with tea was placed on it already.

“Everything suits you.” And wasn’t this the truth? Dapper and a little snobbish in his usual suits, almost naked in leather or under a thin robe… Mycroft could wear it all…

“Oh, that’s… Well, likewise. Your costume was awesome.”

“So was yours...” Sherlock wondered if his cheeks could possibly get any redder.

But Mycroft stared down at him and smiled. “Thank you. Dammit...”

“What?”

“Oh, I just finally thought about _why_ Anthea must have chosen this insane costume.”

Sherlock thought about Mrs Hudson’s reaction. “You mean she wanted...” He broke off, unable to put it in words right now. Was this true? Had Mycroft's clever assistant wanted them to… get closer?

“I do believe so. She’s way too smart to do this without thinking about it.”

“It was brave. Getting it for you. And for you wearing it.”

Mycroft smiled and there was so much affection in his eyes that Sherlock could have stared into them forever.

“Let me get some hot tea for us, hm?”

Sherlock nodded. “But… Don’t get dressed.” Was he crazy to say that? But nobody could have denied the tension between them. It had not disappeared over night. And he didn’t want his brother to hide behind his Iceman armour. And frankly, he liked him more or less not dressed…

Mycroft gave him a surprised grin. “All right. I’ll be back in a moment.”

*****

Could he dare? Dare claiming what he had been wanting to have for so long? Sherlock had come to him. He had even come with the blessing of his best friend and his landlady. He had been devouring Mycroft with his eyes ever since he had opened the door. Sherlock was nervous and scared, but certainly because this was so new and had happened out of nowhere.

But Mycroft knew he had to make the first step now and an age-old guilt and fear to lose Sherlock forever and to take advantage of his little brother whom he had only wanted to protect all his life made him hesitate. He wanted this and Sherlock wanted it too, there wasn’t much doubt about it. But what would be tomorrow? Or next month? They couldn’t cross this line that had never been meant to be crossed and then say it had been a mistake and go back. There would be no way back.

Sherlock had downed his tea and put the cup into the saucer. “I know what you think,” he said, sounding more like himself than he had done since he had come into the house. “You think I will regret it and that you are evil to lure me into an incestuous affair.”

Mycroft winced. It sounded even worse when Sherlock put it in words… “Something like that...”

“Well, forget it. I thought about this all night. I know now that this had been building up for years. And I’m talking about me, not you, because I’m sure it had been like this for you for a very long time.”

It wasn’t a question but Mycroft confirmed it with a nod. “It’s true. You were already an adult though...”

Sherlock shook his head. “It wouldn’t have mattered to me if I had been a teenager, or even younger. You never did anything with me and you would have never initiated it without your cunning PA.”

Anthea had seen his despair after Sherrinford. And perhaps she had known for ages that he liked his difficult, challenging little brother more than what was decent. She had known only one man could get him out of his misery and she had taken the opportunity when it had presented itself. She had feared he would fire her. Instead she would get a rise…

Mycroft nodded. “I would have never thought it would be welcome. I always knew that… I don’t really count for you.”

Sherlock cringed. “But you do. And you always did. I’m sorry. God, there is a full list of things I have to apologise for… I was awful to you. All these years. Well, no need to tell you that; you were there…”

Mycroft patted his hand. It was the first time they were touching each other. Probably the first time since he had taken Sherlock's phone away during the meeting about the Magnussen disaster… “I always understood it. We are both responsible for drifting apart and I made enough mistakes myself.” There would be so much to talk about. They would need weeks to account for a past they couldn’t change anymore. But they could do better in future.

“No,” Sherlock said. “You were always my big brother and you always cared for me. And I was an ungrateful brat and rejected you and...” He shut up when Mycroft got up and walked around the table.

Mycroft urged him to stand up and follow him to the sofa. He put his arms around Sherlock's shoulder when they were seated. “We will talk about this all. We will have to. But now… Would you mind if I...” He didn’t get any further before Sherlock's mouth crashed against his own, answering his question quite unambiguously. And Mycroft smiled, and holding his brother in a tight embrace, he let his mouth be plundered and explored, and he shuddered when a long-fingered hand slid into his robe to touch his chest, and all old resentment and hurt and ice melted and crumbled in their passionate, loving first kiss.

*****

Somehow Sherlock got rid of his clothes and ended up on top of his brother, the robe sliding to both sides as he impatiently untied the belt, his face nuzzling against warm, soft, hairy skin, his lips finding Mycroft's nipples with the determination of a hungry baby, his hand closing around an astonishingly thick, long appendage, which turned into stone under his caressing fingers, only that stone didn't leak any sticky fluid. Said fluid had to be lapped at and tasted, and Sherlock soon found himself kneeling on the floor between his brother’s invitingly spread legs, licking and nibbling at the source of the salty stickiness, and time seemed to stand still while he was exploring and giving pleasure in ways he would have dismissed only a day ago.

There was an overload of scents and tastes and noises – guttural grunts mostly, stammering of incoherent words, being called ‘love’ and ‘dear’ and ‘oh God’ and Sherlock had never had so much interest in any experiment he had done and in any case he had solved. But this wasn’t a game and it wasn’t an experiment – it was love and passion and trial and surprisingly little error and it was all fine and amazing and then he found himself on his back and his cock disappeared in a warm, wet cave and Sherlock whimpered and moaned in a voice none of his friends would have recognised before he was pulsing down his brother’s eager throat way too soon, but there was no way holding it back and then his hand searched for his brother’s red, glistening prick and began stroking it relentlessly, and soon there were loud moans, much deeper than his own, and he was covered in both their semen and the couch had to be a lost cause but Mycroft just pulled him close and whispered words of love and that he would never let Sherlock go again.

And Sherlock had known that already because Mycroft had always looked out for him, had always had his back and now he could also have his arse and his cock and of course his heart and it was good because it was love and trust and care and Sherlock couldn’t wait for all the lovely things they would do to each other.

And on a chilly Saturday morning, the two rather sticky brothers Holmes cuddled on the couch, entangled with each other, smiling and happy, and just before falling asleep, Mycroft blindly reached for his phone on the table and texted Anthea just two words _(Thank you)_ and then he switched it off and closed his arms around his baby brother and his heart was filled with a love that had made him unhappy for so long and that now was being welcomed and returned and just the best feeling in the world.

The End


End file.
